It Went Wrong
by It'sWhatPeopleDo
Summary: This is a little one shot I thought of after watching The Reichenbach Fall. It has almost been a year since Sherlock jumped and John can't handle the pain anymore. This is my first Sherlock fanfic so please don't be too mean. *Sorry for the sucky summary*


*Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own any of the characters and places or any of that good stuff. I just own this story line.*

John runs down the elegant corridor towards Mycroft's office, gun in hand. Security was catching up on him. Mycroft is sitting in his lounge chair reading the newspaper. John bursts into the room and spins around to lock the door.

"How nice of you to stop in, John," Mycroft says quietly. Security is pounding on the door demanding entrance. "You may leave, I have this under control," he shouts loud enough for them to hear. The pounding subsides. All that is left is a calm electric silence.

John takes a seat across from Mycroft, making sure his pistol is in plain sight. He searches his friend's brother's face for any kind of sign of suffering. He finds none. John is exhausted and starving, but he can't sleep and he can't eat. He barely knows what he is doing. All that is on his mind—all that has been on his mind—is Sherlock. Sherlock, and the last moments of his life. The calmness of Mycroft angered John. How could someone so involved with Sherlock for so long not care? "Why didn't you stop him?" John quietly and shakily asks.

"Who?"

"Why didn't you stop _him_?" John repeats louder.

"Moriarty? Well, I didn't have to, he did it himself. Sherlock? I didn't think my little brother would actually do it. Besides, he was a fake."

"N-No he wasn't. You don't actually believe that." John, who was looking at his lap, raises his head to look Mycroft in the eye. "Do you even care?"

Mycroft was surprised to see the look of complete anguish and hopelessness on John's face. It looks like he hasn't slept or eaten in a week. His eyes were placid bloodshot pits sorrow. He seemed to be on the verge of insanity with grief and on the verge of shutting down. Mycroft almost wanted to tell John the truth. "I do care," Mycroft responds. "More than I allow others to see. I loved him, John. He _was_ my brother."

John reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small folded letter. He reaches over and hands it to Mycroft. "Please, leave this on his grave…for me." John's expression keeps on growing ever more distant and dismal.

"Would you min—" Mycroft starts as he fondles the note.

"It hurts so badly, my heart. I just don't know if I can take it anymore." John partially groans.

"John…"

"I have never felt anything like this. Not even when mum died…" John slowly clicks the safety off on the gun, making sure Mycroft doesn't notice. "I can't talk to Mrs. Hudson, she's been through enough. I cannot even begin to describe what this feels like. I can't take it anymore," With that John slowly brings the gun up to his broken heart.

Mycroft rises from his seat, careful not to make any sudden movements. "John don't. Sherlock wouldn't want you to do this."

Tears fill John's sore eyes and a sad smile comes to his chapped lips. "I'm sorry," And he closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.

Mycroft couldn't move fast enough. For one brief second his mind went absolutely blank. He just stood staring at John with the hole through his heart and the blood quickly climbing its way through the fibers of his jumper. Mycroft unlocks the office door and a few moments later security shoves its way into the room. They make sure the room is clear and then calls for an ambulance. Mycroft just stands there.

* * *

That evening, after everything has been settled, Mycroft sends a message to his brother.

After you have read tomorrow's paper

meet me at our usual place & usual time. I have something

for you.

M

About a minute later Mycroft receives a confirmation message. How was he going to handle his supposed-to-be-dead brother now? How can he ensure that Sherlock won't actually kill himself? Maybe they can afford to have Sherlock come out of hiding early. There are too many scenarios for Mycroft to deal with. He can't prepare without knowing Sherlock's reaction. Everything at that point depended on Sherlock's feelings.

Mycroft waited for Sherlock under a tree in the graveyard he was supposed to be buried in. At 20:00 sharp Mycroft sees Sherlock's tall lean figure approaching. He is walking very fast and has what seems to the news clutched in his hand. Sherlock has tears streaming from his eyes as he holds the paper in his elder brother's face. "Tell me—Tell me this is not true," He demands shakily.

Mycroft looks his little brother in the eye sympathetically and responds solemnly, "I wish I could. But I saw it with my own eyes, it was no stunt. I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock whips around and starts pacing mumbling, "No, no, no, no…" and pulling on his hair as he goes. He abruptly stops and turns to Mycroft. "I have to see him."

"Sherlock…"

"I HAVE TO SEE HIM, MYCROFT!" Sherlock bellows. "I trust they've taken him to St. Bart's. I must call Molly."

"Sherlock!" snaps Mycroft to get his attention. "He—He left you a letter. He wanted me to put it on your grave," Mycroft extends his arm and drops the neatly folded note into his brother's hand.

Sherlock frantically reads the letter. By the end of it he is moaning in anguish and running his hand through his hair in stress. "Oh, John," is all he can manage. "I—I have to call Molly." And he pulls out his phone and dials her number. "Molly, please don't talk. I am coming over to the hospital right now. Meet me there," He hangs up and starts running towards the main road.

Mycroft sighs and walks to his car. He hated driving, but he didn't trust anyone but himself to take him to see his brother. Mycroft pulls up in front of Sherlock who was trying to hail a cab. Sherlock climbs in and they speed off to St. Bart's. By the time they reach the hospital Sherlock has John's letter memorized.

Molly is waiting outside the front door for them. "You're lucky I was just leaving when you called," She mumbles more to herself than anyone as she opens the door for the Holmes brothers. She hands Sherlock the key to the morgue and he takes off down the hallway. Mycroft and she slowly follow him. "This is terrible," Molly sighs, stating the obvious.

"I have no idea what we are going to do next. I suppose nobody will get hurt if we let him come out now. I should have told him the truth when I had a chance," Mycroft says sounding exhausted.

When they come to the morgue entrance Sherlock is standing with his hand on the door handle, preparing to go in. Molly takes the key from him and opens the door. Sherlock still stands there. Molly slides past him and brings John's body out of cabinet. Sherlock is standing by her side now. "I'll give you two some privacy," and she heads towards the door to meet back up with Mycroft.

"No," Sherlock says sternly. "Don't go. I want you to explain everything."

"Oh, okay. Well," she pulls the sheet down to uncover John's chest. "He shot himself right—right through the heart," she couldn't think of anything to say that Sherlock didn't already know. "He was in a bad place, Sherlock. People would call him in to examine a body for clues. It was like they thought he was you. He would try to find something important, using what he learned from you. It was like he didn't want to let anyone down. But afterwards he would breakdown, when he thought no one was looking. He stopped the blog and eventually Lestrade stopped calling. He sort of disappeared with you. He did bad things to himself, Sherlock. Lots of drugs and—and—Oh, Sherlock, he was the most miserable person."

Sherlock wanted to believe everything Molly said was a lie. But he couldn't because he saw everything, he saw the truth. As he moved his gaze up and down his friend's body he couldn't help but notice every detail. His sunken in cheeks and visible ribs showed he didn't eat much anymore and was malnourished. The dark bags and red rimmed eyes showed Sherlock that John hadn't been sleeping and had cried often. The pink, purple, and white scars say that he tried to cope through self-mutilation or were the result of previous attempts at suicide. The small bruises and scabs are the result of needles inserted by a shaking hand. Most likely administering drugs to escape the pain.

"I thought he would have been stronger. I thought he would have moved on. Gotten married, maybe have a few kids. You know, forget about me."

"He'd never forget about you, Sherlock. You had saved him and he wasn't able to save you, and he never forgave himself for that," Molly says trying to console the man.

"Excuse me," Sherlock says rather quickly and whips out of the room. He is going to go back to where this entire mess began. The roof. Mycroft tries to follow him but Sherlock tells him he needs to be alone.

Sherlock sits down on the ledge and pulls out his notepad and pen. All he writes down is:

I am sorry everything went wrong. Goodbye.

Sherlock knew he was stronger than this. But now he just didn't feel like living anymore. He couldn't go back to solving crimes without John, he can't even think of it being enjoyable anymore. If he came back to normal life he would rot in his boredom and loneliness and would probably end up killing himself anyways. So why not save himself the time and get it over with now.

Sherlock stands in the same spot where he first jumped. He closes his eyes and spreads his arms. He looks like he is about to take flight. "For you, John," he whispers and he steps off the roof.


End file.
